


[hulk's happy day] - fic

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Deliberate Badfic, Gen, Intellific, Literary References & Allusions, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2331884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Pity this busy monster.</i>
</p><p>This is the Hulk's happy day. This is the swirl of inner consciousness, weaving through five movements, this green beast with flowers and a Man inside of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[hulk's happy day] - fic

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [hulk's happy day [art]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2312438) by [dante_gabriel_renesmee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dante_gabriel_renesmee/pseuds/dante_gabriel_renesmee). 



> For C, who is the dedicated moderator of things fandom and things that are in accordance of the world. Your knowledge is boundless and endless, like the Library of Alexandria before it burned into cinders, ashes of truth and science flaking out into the deep cerulean sky.

Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Like the crowd greeting the gladiator. Don’t stop to think, don’t interrupt the scream, exhale, release life’s rapture.

-Vladimir Nabokov

 

* * *

 

 1.

 

House. Light of his life, place of safety. His refuge, his home. House: a simple syllable that conveyed the comfort of hushed peace and focused meditation, away from the rusted crowded cities that he could smash. House. It was a bright house in the morning, illuminated by the rising dancing rays of the iridescent celestial body that was the sun. It was a warm house in the afternoon, where he cooked in the kitchen while grey ashen oster smoke wafted from the red brick chimney, and he could quench his large appetite. It was a cool house at night, remembering days of caves and rain and also, always, smashing. But to him, in his soul, it was ultimately his hearth and his heart, where the pulsing red arteries of _safe-safe-safe_ ran through every vein and bone and viscera.

 

2.

 

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a hungry Hulk in possession of a picnic basket must be in want of a pie. The red of the apples touched his lip, and he ate it slowly and carefully, savoring the taste of it. It was sweet, bursting with ambrosial flavor, like nectar that the youthful cupbearer Ganymede served to Zeus, with the tanginess of wine. The red did not remind him of the blood of his past--not the screams or the desire to pull the mechanical wiry trigger or breaking Bronx while the humans screamed. It didn’t. It didn’t. (And something in him howls, and the Human inside him curls into himself like the abandoned child that he is--(his father, his mother)--and it’s difficult to remember his _other_ name, his original name, losing himself to the abyss that is this abyss--)

 

3.

 

There is a fairy tale about a bird. Well, there are many fairy tales about birds, but here is one about the Nightingale and the Rose. There was once a man of science who fell in love with a beautiful woman who wanted a rose. Oh, elegant slender roses. Red roses, five petals like Christ’s five wounds; red roses, like Mary Herself. But in this case it is more about the former than the latter, for there was a nightingale who gave the man of science a rose to give to his darling. For she, the gale of the gossamer night, pierced herself on the thorns, leaving droplets of scarlet blood on a pure white rose. The man of science had his crimson rose, but his beloved turned away from him in the end. Such is the fate of men like them.

Turning, turning, the widening gyre. Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold.

 

4.

 

Bellis perennis _._ Argyranthemum. Leucanthemum vulgare. Leucanthemum x superbum. There is a full fresh field of fragrant daisies between his emerald toes. He kneels to toy with the thin puny stems between his fingertips. He names the kingdom and the order and the family and the genus and the species with every twist of his hands. He has no such kingdom and order and family for himself.

Daisies. A daisy. Someone loves me, someone loves me not. Petals blowing in the wind (oh, like the five of roses, like Christ’s quinate lacerations carved into His skin). Someone loves me, someone loves me not. A mantra, a chant, a prayer.

Daisy.

That supernova girl in the meadow, counting up to down, instead of down to up. The linear numbers are wrong; the science is wrong. We must love each other or die. The result is nuclear, do not go into the dark, as the Man is huddled into himself inside of him. (Name, name, what is his name?)

 

5.

 

He crowns himself with daisies, like Ophelia with her fantastical garlands. There is no weeping brook to sweep him under. There is a melodious song on his tongue, a nightingale's song, and he feels the rough ragged rhythm of it make pockets in the air.

The Hulk inside of him would say to the Man underneath: _Your self is drowned._

Give him his robe and his crown, for he has immortal longings inside of him.

( _no more_ )

His name was Bruce Banner.

 

* * *

 

I consider it useless and tedious to represent what exists, because nothing that exists satisfies me. Nature is ugly, and I prefer the monsters of my fancy to what is positively trivial.

 

-Charles Baudelaire.

 

* * *

 

your victim (death and life safely beyond)  
  
plays with the bigness of his littleness  
\--- electrons deify one razorblade  
into a mountainrange; lenses extend  
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish  
returns on its unself.  
A world of made  
is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh  
  
and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this  
fine specimen of hypermagical  
  
ultraomnipotence.

 

-ee cummings.

**Author's Note:**

> I believe that characters should not be reduced to being 'happy', but as the troubled and tormented souls that they are. It gives them more dimension, for as feeble-minded as the Hulk may appear, it was Descartes who declared _Cogito ergo sum_ , and the Hulk is the sum of what happened to Bruce Banner and in between.


End file.
